


Five times Sherlock and Lestrade never met. Four: In flux

by grassle



Series: Five times Sherlock and Lestrade never met [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drug Use, Dubious Consent, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-21
Updated: 2013-09-21
Packaged: 2017-12-27 06:07:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/975332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grassle/pseuds/grassle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Disclaimer: I don't own these characters from the BBC's <i>Sherlock</i></p>
<p> </p>
<p>  <i> “The symbol perfects itself by the accumulation of approximations. As such, it is comparable to a spiral, or rather, a solenoid, which each repetition brings closer to its target.”</i></p>
<p> </p>
<p> Gilbert Durand, <i>L'Imagination symbolique</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Five times Sherlock and Lestrade never met. Four: In flux

**In flux**

“Fuck, sorry!” Lestrade shouted, swinging the errant drinks close to his chest, hugging them. Well, prices in this place! “Hey, I know you!”

“Do you?” The tall, skinny bloke in his early twenties licked spilt lager from his wrist and regarded Lestrade.

A beam of light revolving above the dance floor played over them, and Lestrade saw the lanky sod’s silvery blue eyes, pale skin and red lips briefly illuminated. When the ray span away, it left them in a tiny pool of deeper dark than before.

“Think so, yeah. From back home? Nah. Not… Can’t place you. Sorry.” Lestrade started to shrug, thought better of it with his hands full of overpriced and overflat drinks, so grinned instead. Someone banged into him from behind, and he was pushed closer to the bloke. Close enough to feel him practically thrumming. Christ, he was wired. He also got another slop of Stella. “Fuck! Jesus!” yelled Lestrade, his lament loud to carry over the _doof-doof-doof_ of the dance floor music.

“Let me help. You’re drunk in charge of beers, Detective Inspector Lestrade,” said the bloke, not needing to raise his voice now they were practically hip to hip.

“Cheers. ’S’over here. Hang on. How… Oh.” He supposed the man had heard them all celebrating Lestrade’s promotion, over there in the booth. Or could even have been in the pub down the road, where the party had started, carried on, and been carried over to this club. Funny, he’d been here in the daytime recently, interviewing on a case, and the place was so tiny! Like a kids’ place, round tables and round stools and curved booths set round the long sides of the round dance floor, with a curved bar at either end. “Ta, mate,” he said, leading the way to their table.

“Congratulations on your promotion,” the youngster said in that smooth, slick voice, posh and all, sliding the beers onto the table, weathering cries of _good Samaritan! helpful public!_ and _table_ _service!_ from Lestrade’s mates. Then he’d shimmied away, into the dashes and splashes of coloured lights and the pockets of darting dark. Lestrade leant against the end of the banquette thing, not wanting to risk sitting and missing. Oh, he wasn’t pissed – far from it. Could hold his bevvy, him. And his elevation up a rank didn’t mean he was past it, automatically knackered and clapped out, like DIs had seemed when he’d joined CID.

No; not addled, but feeling a bit poorly from mixing this drink with the real ale – yeah; trying to get in with DCI Moore, CAMRA man – and the more celebratory shorts once he’d gone, then this gassy lager, supposedly the least worst thing in the South Lounge nightclub. He’d have been okay finishing with the rounds in the Hart. Wasn’t that into dancing and picking up; only checking out the slappers at the next table out of politeness, because they were too. Drawn to policeman, that sort. Not looking, no, not so soon after Bhav. For God’s sake, DI Beaumont was married! How’d he have time? Lestrade had hardly had a spare minute for –

“Inspector.” And that skinny kid was there again, sidling up out of the gloom, right next to him at the end like that. “DI so young – deserves a real celebration. Cheers. Bottoms up.” And somehow he’d pressed a tumbler into Lestrade’s hand and nudged it to his mouth. It was awful, sweet and syrupy and oily and salty. Some hellish cocktail.

“Hey! What the fuck? That bastard’s stole my drink!”

“And he’s give it to that bloke there!”

“Fucking robbing bastard! Get him, Rach!”

But It seemed they couldn’t, because he’d melted off into the dark again. The girl, Karen, it turned out, stamped up from the next table, attracting a bouncer with her yelling, but was tamped down to sporadic vociferous recaps of the crime and inventive threats against its perpetrator by Lestrade’s sweeping, or rather stumbling her off to the bar to get her another drink. He got two, the same, and found the rest of those girls were at their table now, squashed amongst them or on knees. That sodding DI Richie Full Monty Beaumont!

As Karen giggled and wriggled onto Lestrade’s knees, Lestrade had a moment of clarity nothing to do with the laser of light slicing an arc across their group: that guy had done it on purpose. What – as a roundabout way to get Lestrade set up with some totty as a promotion present? Some sort of drink-stealing, night-club-working Cupid?

And he…did that, set something in motion and watch it jigger along, like a wind-up toy he had power over. Where did Lestrade know him from? That height, those dark curls – familiar.

He started to feel a haze slipping between him and the group’s heaving and shrugging of movements and bursts of conversation, their comings and goings to the bar and dance floor. He was having trouble following the how and the why. The who. He kept fading in and out of the talk, how matter how shrieky they were against the music and how far forward or to the side he leant to catch them.

“Sorry, I’m…”

Karen, tipped off his lap, was in his seat the second he stood. He staggered right round the circle of the floor, stumbling into a table on the other side before finding that false bit of the wall which was really a gap the same colour, a short corridor to the bogs. Mostly empty. People didn’t know about these small toilets. Used the main ones out in the reception area, as management wanted, to keep its eye on them. He wasn’t gonna throw up, just felt so stupidly tired and drained, lethargic, absent, almost. He banged down the lid of the toilet and sat, pushing the door of the cubicle to with a foot. Little rest and…

The tall bloke was there? Inside the stall with him? Looming, lifting Lestrade’s eyelid to examine something?

“Would you urinate, please?”

“Why.”

He meant more than just the request, and the bloke understood. “I need to hold this lab stick into the stream, test for adulterations. If you’d…”

Lestrade was so out of it he stood obediently in the face of the implacable words and managed to piss, hopefully lifting the lid of the toilet first, propping a shoulder against the back wall to assist himself. Didn’t want tall and curly holding his todger for him.

“Thank you.”

Skinny kid helped him slump back down onto the closed-again lid.

“Inspector, please stay here. Locked in, if you’d be so kind. I’ll be back. I’ll need these. Sorry.” The last came in a murmur as he sort of hugged and wriggled Lestrade about, tugging at him. As he stepped back, Lestrade slipped to the floor, to the gap between the loo and the wall. Then he was gone and a long, thin arm reached over the top to close the bolt on the door. Lestrade was left alone, for minutes or hours he couldn’t tell. Time seemed to slip.

‘“I'm crazy for you, Touch me once and you'll know it's true,”’ he hummed along to the distant mist of music some time later. Bugger. Slow dances had started. Must be late as he drifted here, feeling like he was dancing, or spinning. Drifting. Out of tune. Out of time. Well, couldn’t be helped, he supposed.

‘“Crazy for you,”’ he warbled, as the hand reappeared and the bolt was shot back. Then tall and strange filled the cubicle doorway and helped him stand, hanging on to him when his legs tried to fold under him.

“What’s your name?” Lestrade cried, his voice loud in the empty room.

“John.”

“No it’s not!” He was sure of that, sure that glittery eyes and sparkling skin and red-heart lips and long, endless limbs and a nice arse weren’t John.

“Isn’t it? Hmm.”

They paused, and Lestrade looked at the two of them in the mirror, feeling the words he could hear in the distance, riding the soft beat, the living in a world of fools, breaking us down, when they all should let us be…

‘“How deep is your love.”’ He tried to nod in satisfaction. Sure-fire-last-dance-floor filler.

“Inspector. As I’m sure you realise, you were slipped a spiked drink.” The bony hands clutching his arms forced his attention. It made sense. Explained the time drifts and the slow slipping into the distant music.

“Who by?”

“Me, I’m afraid.”

“Afraid of what?” Lestrade asked, his tongue too thick and slow in his mouth. “You’re not scared.” He didn’t look it. Not in those tight jeans and nice shirt.

The bloke sighed. “I believe a serial date rapist operates out of this club. I’m here tracking him.”

“I’m a copper.”

“Yes.”

“You’re…an amateur. A fan?” He giggled, his head still heavy and threatening to overbalance his body, pitch it forwards. “Oh. ‘Don’t wanna miss a thing.’ Love this. ‘Miss you babe, and…”’

“You’re not following me.” No; still spinning and sticking. “You drank a drink into which a man had deliberately tipped gamma-hydroxybutyrate, known as –”

“GHB.” Lestrade moved his head. Wouldn’t call it _nodded_.

“Yes, and the salty taste was disguised by the revoltingly sweet drink and mixer. You’re experiencing sedative, dissociative and euphoric effects. Compounded by the amnesiac effects of the benzodiazepine which was also added. Hence the impaired motor functions. And the lack of expected dizziness, nausea and vomiting.”

“Wow. Considerate bastard. And chemist.”

“Yes.” The bloke’s hand raised up and lifted Lestrade’s eyelid again. Did the bloke _sniff_ him? _He_ smelt nice, actually. “We have two choices at this point.”

“The second,” Lestrade replied immediately.

“You haven’t heard –”

“The second’s always the best. They keep it back.” He nodded in careful consideration, still a bit swimmy, a bit muffled. _Cushioned?_ Was that the word? When there was a cotton wool wrapping all around and…

“We can wait until your system voids itself of the drugs, speeded by drinking large amounts of fluids, or… How normal are you?”

Lestrade watched John push his thick curls out of his strange eyes before he answered him. “I’m bi. Gay. Bi. Whatever.”

“I didn’t mean… Oh, come back in here.” And by the time Lestrade had pulled his feet from the quicksand and made it back to the toilet stall, ‘John’ was chopping two white lines finer on the closed toilet lid. But it was like watching telly. Removed. Remote. Not his concern. The man’s long arm reached back and pulled Lestrade down. “This will chase away the effects quickly and easily.” He curled Lestrade’s fingers around a short, slim metal tube and pushed his head low.

“That’s –” Lestrade made some attempt to catalogue, classify.

“Yes.”

“Two.” See? He could quantify, analyse.

“Can’t let a man snort alone. Bad form.” And the Lestrade squatting on the floor must have snorted up the line, as seconds later the tube was slid from his hand and a dark curly head was bending low. Low enough to pet. Nice curls. As soft and silky as they looked. Lestrade gripped them tight as the rush shot through him, throwing his head back, charging his body. _Woah._ He got to his feet and strolled back to the sinks, testing his limbs and muscles as he did so. The bloke joined him, zinging and zipping.

“How do you feel now?”

“Fucking A! Ten years younger, kid.”

And the mirror showed them wearing matching grins.

“What’s your bloody _name_!”

“John!” He was loud too.

“Right. So’s mine then.”

“Detective Inspector _John_ Lestrade?”

“Yes? May I help you?” Despite the pounding heartbeat and the wash of heat he felt good; energised, alert. “What about the bastard? You get him? How d’you even –”

“Yes. A case I’m working on.” He wasn’t undercover, Lestrade knew. Too young. Even with fast tracking. Wouldn’t have this level of – “An acquaintance of mine. Finally got off the streets and a day job, and a night job. Here. She saw some things she didn’t like. I said I’d solve it for her. She was always good to me and –”

“Right then. Oh. ‘Start spreading the news…’” He swayed to Frank’s mellow tones. “'New York, New York.' Means it’s chucking out time. They put the lights up gradually. Missed my chance now. I really fancy a dance, and all.”

“I didn’t mean to give you a new lease of life. I just wanted to be able to get you home easily.”

“Yeah?” Although aware they were having two different conversations, he was grinning like an idiot now. “I’m up for that.”

 

And there were corridors and streets and gatherings of people and they were in a cab. John turned slightly to the window, and seeing his face bathed in moonlight poked Lestrade back down the years to another face, that one topped by dark curls too and outlined by sunlight. A simple question as to how John had worked the case undammed a stream of narrative, fast, convinced, emphatic, and Lestrade recalled a kid, a real kid, just as alone, lone crusader or something, already as sure of his thought processes. Without knowing why, he handed over his hanky.

“Thanks?” He’d startled John. Surprised him, even.  
“So how d’you manage the arrest, then?”

“I persuaded him to the nearest station, to confess.”

“How?”

“These…might have helped. Have them back.”

Then heart-stopping nearness and closeness as delicate fingers replaced…his wallet? His cuffs?

“He’ll be sure to say Detective Inspector Lestrade arrested him.”

“De-tec-tive-In-spec-tor.” Lestrade sighed, proud, happy, living in this slipstream, letting the talk of a moment before slip free.

“How is it?”

“Oh, the old DI should’ve gone ages ago. He’s a burnt-out cynic, no life left, no love left for the work, no…fire, you know? I’ll never get like that. I’ve got ideas. I wanna proper team, people who love the work. I’m not scared of having women on my team, not like most of ’em. And I wanna work more closely with technicians, too, so we understand one another’s capabilities and needs, can learn from one another, get more out of it. I’m not afraid of broadening the base, bringing in people they all think of as outsiders. Consultants, anything, to work to get the end result.” He was aware he was, giving it ninety to the dozen, rattling out the speeches he’d spent ages working on, revealing his plans, his hopes, his dreams for the borough…

“Oh. Here we are. That was quick. Hang on while I tidy round a bit.”

He had the energy for it. Even did the dishes. Was just deciding against vaccing – sodding neighbours even objected to music after evening – when he remembered his guest. Who was reading through the case files on his living-room alcove desk. “Here. Ouzo. Present. All I’ve got in. You shouldn’t look at those. ” He had another stroke of the curls. Got a handful and scrunched them up in his fist. Lovely. And that shirt. Soft. Silk? Probably.

“This missing Nigerian nanny. Tell me your work-up and how far you’ve got.” ‘John’ rubbed his face against Lestrade’s hand rubbing down his arm.

He could and would! It was easier to talk walking, and soon ‘John’ was pacing too, explaining that the woman having returned from Dubai with her employers to their native London neighbourhood was significant, as was the fact she’d last been seen by the family she worked for and reported missing two days later. Because no one there knew her.

“What, so it might not have her they brought back with them?”

“If they brought anyone, of course. But I think they did.”

“But…” And he stopped dashing about to make notes, because this was interesting and relevant, and there must have been another time-jump: he’d put some music on. His _Romantic ’80s_ CD. Because of last dances. He beckoned his companion over and grabbed him. 'Careless Whisper.' Lovely.

“We were at uni together,” he decided, tilting his head back to peer.

“Were we.”

“Yeah. You had a college sweatshirt on and a baseball cap.”

“Did I. Sounds unlikely.”

“But you’re younger than I am.” _True._ ‘“So true…’ How old are you?”

“Old enough. I’m legal.” ‘John’ looked nice amused. His strange face crinkled.

“Is it John with an _H_ or without?”

“Oh, with. The _H_ is vital.”

“Paramount.” Lestrade nodded. 'Save a Prayer.'

“Crucial. You’ve recently finished with…”

‘“The morning after.’ Yeah. And, you know what? I’d love a blowjob. I really would. And you’re made for it.”

“Am I now. Because of my mouth, I suppose.”

“No. Coz of your lips. Oh, yeah then. DSL. Know what that is?”

“Digital subscriber line?” ‘John’ chuckled as Lestrade shook his head against him, stopping himself biting into that luscious neck, no matter how sensuous it was under his lips. He deserved an award. “Domain-specific language?”

“Dick sucking lips.” He uncoupled to get a look at the bloke in his arms. Who was grinning, making his lips plump up, their beautiful shape softened and highlighted and gorgeous. “God. Imagine those wrapped around my cock. I am, I mean.”

“Don’t forget to imagine the condom as well, Detective Inspector John.”

“Hey, I’m clean!”

“I might not be.” The music faded out, leaving a heavy beat between them. Lestrade made a grab for the bloke, because he had the feeling he might just vanish again. He didn’t. He spoke. All dark and midnight and chocolate. “Not here. Bedroom. Because I’ll want to fuck you as well.”

“ _Fuck_.” Lestrade nodded, slow, reverential as he repeated the word. “ _Fuck_. Say it again?”

“Don’t you know the word?”

“’Course! Just love it in your posh accent. _Fuck_.” He tried again to get the same tone, pitch, whatever. “ _Fuck_. Screw or bang, wouldn’t be the same.” He was sure of that.

“Hmm. Tup? That do?”

“That’s not a word!”

“Where are you going.” ‘John’’s turn to grab for him.

“Get dictionary.”

“Forget that. Come here.”

 

And then it was the bedroom and his bedside drawers ransacked and him sitting on the edge of his bed, his hands grinding into the duvet as ‘John’, kneeling between his legs, made him yell long and loud for his maker, his redeemer, anyone. “Jesus, John!” he screamed, at the pressure applied to the head of his cock.

“Oh.” And those unbelievable lips were removed for John to talk. No! “You’re a screamer. Should have guessed. I’ll have to gag you to fuck you.”

“Oooh. Ohhhhhh!” It was fucking bliss, and he fell back in the aftermath of a climax so hard and powerful and summoned from the very depths of his soul that it had him weak and shivering. And he was tipped into the middle and stripped naked and watching John remove his clothes and reveal his pale, long-limbed perfection and huge cock and, “Holy fucking cow!” he cried at the top of his lungs as he was penetrated, not even minding he’d already come and that was usually it for him.

Penetrated? Split in half more like, his body rising and hovering and reshaping round the mammoth intrusion stretching him, stuffing him, the unmanageable, too-muchness of the length and width and pace and pleasure and perfection. More perfect perfection. Hard and long and dirty and sudden and forceful and perfect.

“Well, Jesus. Christ,” he sighed on a huge wave of pleasure as John pulled out, letting Lestrade flop flat, sated, spent, probably again for all he knew. He wished he’d heard his partner’s moan of completion, but had felt and seen him working for it, fighting the constriction and heat of Lestrade, and he’d felt the hot burst of him coming, even through the condom. “Fuck. You could charge for that. I’d pay money for that.”

“How do you know I don’t?”

F _uck. That would mean… No. Not that perfect perfection._ “John.” That came out loud, so he lowered his voice. “Will you…stay?”

“Until you fall asleep.”

“Oh. Oh. I feel…”

“Yes. You’re crashing. Coming down. And with that cocktail you imbibed, including the drink, there should be no comedown, just –”

“Sleeeeep.”

 

Morning. Waking. Weird. Strange tastes and scents and feels – nightclub; promotion – and sore! _Fuck. He’d_ – Bits and bobs of memories poked sharp sticks into his dry brain. He’d been drinking, he knew. Done drugs, he thought. Picked up a…call boy? he thought. That was a crime, wasn’t it? A sin, or something? Pathetic, anyway. Some young college student turning tricks to pay for his studies? Jesus. And his throat was so scratchy, like he’d been yelling? Oh, he needed…

There was a huge glass of water on his dressing table, a sheet of paper folded in half covering its top. A close look showed him it held two tablets, one on one half of the paper , which was marked _NORMAL OPTION_ and the other on the side labelled _LESS NORMAL._ Lestrade took up the ibuprofen and the, oh, diazepam, and swallowed them both with the full glass of water. He unfolded the paper and squinted to read the typed words. Oh. So the bloke had helped himself to Lestrade’s PC and printer, had he?

_Detective Inspector ‘John’ Lestrade,_

Who?

_As you’ll shortly discover, I helped myself to a hundred pounds when I took your wallet early in the evening._

I don’t have that much! How –

_I used your cash card._

But you –

_That Post-It note stuck to it with the code on. Really._

But I –

_Reversing the four digits was the first combination I tried. I’m assuming you live your life fairly normally, so please consider the money a loan and that I will pay you back: you haven’t paid for sex. Or, if you prefer, consider it a fee for solving two cases for you:_

  
_1\. The missing nanny. The Dale family are not what they seem. They got too deeply into the expat life and took ‘loans’ to live it to the full, repaying them by using that unfortunate woman as a human drug mule on their return._  
 _2\. Further, the string of business robberies in the district? The locations seem random, a Tesco Express, 10th, McDonalds, 17th, Lidl, 23rd, but the locations are forming a cross, so expect the next at the Littlehampton Road BP petrol station on the 28th. You’re looking for someone with a religious background for whom this is a ritual. And someone who has a sawn-off shotgun, obviously._

Fuck! Fuck! Yes! What? Lestrade hurled himself to his desk and his files. It was bloody possible! He caught sight of the final bit of the paper.

_Oh, yes. Your inauguration speech. I suggest the following. Speak on gun control. You haven’t approached it, and it’s becoming a hot topic. People are avoiding it because it tends to polarise along race lines. Be brave enough to deal with it and get on top of it. Perhaps a multiracial task force?_

_The section on drugs needs to be bigger – think about measures to cure as well as prevention initiatives. Link to charities working in the field._

_I also suggest thinking ahead to Christmas, not just the increased street robberies but street problems and how to lessen them. (Bars and clubs could sponsor street medical tents/field hospitals, treating drink/drug-related injuries/complaints to alleviate the burden on A &Es. Businesses could sponsor temporary street cities for the homeless.)_

_We could consider the money a consultancy fee?_

The initials the letter was signed with didn’t look like a _J_ for John. More like an _S_ and an _H_. Lestrade sank onto his sofa, wincing. He’d been fucked and not fucked over. As far as he could remember. Which wasn’t very far. He couldn’t remember the bloke’s face that well, but he knew he’d know it again. And he did...

 

**Spiral Dynamics** is a theory of human development which argues that human nature is not fixed: humans are able, when forced by life conditions, to adapt to their environment by constructing new, more complex, conceptual models of the world that allow them to handle the new problems. There are infinite stages of progress and regression over time dependent upon the life circumstances of the person/culture, which are constantly in flux.

_Spiral Dynamic_ s, Don Beck and Chris Cowan.


End file.
